At first Tim’s mama had been almost overcome. She had come home on that sad day with several packages of presents. Especially she had had delivered a very pretty cart with a very good seat, blue box and red wheels, and plush cushion, a gift for Tim, so that Louise could take him out riding. And for some days it stood beside his bed. They did not wait for Christmas, but held it up to him that he might feel of it.
“You must get well, Tim, so that you can ride in it,” they said. But he answered nothing. No, Tim would not be able to use it,—no, not for Christmas at any rate. It was too bad. Everything was done that money could provide and that love could imagine in order to comfort and encourage the little sick cripple. Tim had always been pale and thin. Now he was much more so. His eyes glistened at times, not with animation but with fever-light. His cheeks were pink too, but it was not a natural glow. All his pains he bore very patiently.
Already it was getting dark. The lights twinkled along the streets. In the quiet of the Sunday afternoon Mrs. Rudiger had sat by Tim’s bedside. She was almost dozing in the stillness. Suddenly there was a rap. Three sturdy little strangers stood at the door, big-eyed, one of them carrying a bouquet.
“Does Tim what was hurt live here, ma’am?”
“Why, yes.”
“We bring’d some flowers, ma’am, from the Sunday school. Tim’s in our class. Yes’m, teacher sent us.” The little fellows waddled in, very dignified, each cap in hand. For some minutes they stood by the bed. Not a word was said. Soon they whispered and beckoned. How it was done no one could tell, but they understood that they were to leave.
“Please, ma’am, tell Tim we was here. Pale, ain’t he?” said the biggest, who had carried the flowers and so felt himself leader and spokesman. It was interesting to watch the three little figures as they walked along down the street. Serious little men!
One day as Tim opened his eyes from a nap he heard some one speaking softly with his mother. Over his face there passed a sweet smile of welcome. It was his teacher. She had called, and had been talking with his mother for some time.
“Awful glad to see you.” He tried to smile and to reach out his hand for her to take.
“Yes, Tim,” said she. After a few words he began to ask about the Sunday School and his class.